Silks

CHAPTER 14

On Friday morning I went shopping in Newbury. A taxi picked me up from the hotel and I spent a couple of hours buying myself, maybe not a complete new wardrobe, but enough to see me through the next few weeks at Oxford Crown Court.

The hotel receptionist raised a questioning eyebrow when I arrived back at the Queen’s Arms with two suitcases of luggage that I hadn’t had the previous night.

‘Lost by the airline,’ I said to her, and she nodded knowingly.

She carried the cases to my room as I struggled along behind her with the damn crutches.

‘Are you staying tonight, then?’ she asked.

‘I’m not sure yet,’ I said. ‘Someone told me at breakfast that late check-out would be OK.’ For a fee, of course.

‘Oh yes, that’s fine,’ she said. ‘The room is free tonight if you want it.’ I presumed she didn’t mean free as in money, but free as in unoccupied.

‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I’ll let you know.’ And I closed the door.

I eased myself out of the white plastic shell and chanced standing in the shower without it, letting a stream of cool water wash away the grime and bring relief to my itching body. I washed my hair with new shampoo, brushed my teeth with a new toothbrush, and shaved my chin with a new razor. I then reluctantly put myself back in the plastic straightjacket before dressing in crisp clean new shirt and trousers. I suddenly felt so much better. Almost a new man, in fact.

The taxi returned after lunch and took me to Uffington, back to the Radcliffes’ place. I had called Larry Clayton to say I was coming and he was sitting in his office when I arrived about two thirty, the same scuffed cowboy boots resting on his desk. It had been only two days since I had been here, but somehow it seemed longer.

‘How can I help?’ he said, not getting up.

I handed him a copy of the Millie and foal photo.

‘Do you recognize anyone in this picture?’ I asked him.

He studied it quite closely. ‘Nope,’ he said finally.

‘The foal is Peninsula,’ I said.

He looked again at the picture.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Still can’t help you.’

‘When did you say you arrived here?’ I asked him.

‘Last September,’ he said.

‘Where were you before?’ I said.

‘Up in Cheshire,’ he said. ‘I managed a meat-packing plant in Runcorn.’

‘Bit different from this,’ I said. ‘How did you get this job?’

‘I applied,’ he said. ‘Why, what’s your problem?’ He lifted his feet off the desk and sat upright in his chair.

‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘No problem. Just seems funny to move from meat packing to foals.’

‘Perhaps they wanted me for my man-management skills,’ he said, clearly annoyed with my questions.

‘Is there anyone working here now who was here when Peninsula was born?’ I asked, trying to change direction.

‘Doubt it,’ he said unhelpfully, leaning back and replacing his feet on the desk. It was his way of telling me that my time was up.

‘Well, keep the photo anyway,’ I said. ‘If anyone recognizes the man will you ask them to give me a call.’ I handed him one of my business cards but I suspected that he would put it in the waste bin beside his desk as soon as I was through the door, together with the photo.

‘When did you say the Radcliffes will be back?’ I asked him from the doorway.

‘The Kentucky Derby is at Louisville tomorrow,’ he said, leaning further back in his chair. ‘They’ll be back sometime after that.’ He seemed determined not to be too helpful.

‘Right,’ I said. ‘Would you ask them to look at the picture as well, please?’

‘Maybe,’ he said.

The taxi had waited for me and I asked the driver to take me back to the Queen’s Arms. That had all been a waste of time, I thought.

I called Eleanor and asked her if I should stay for a second night or go on to Oxford. Arthur had booked my hotel from the Friday, and I had already called to check that all my boxes had arrived there safely.

‘I’m on call again,’ she said.

‘Is everything all right?’ I asked her. She seemed strangely reticent for someone who had previously been so forthcoming, almost eager.

‘Fine,’ she said. ‘I’m just very busy at the moment.’

Was it something I had said, I wondered.

‘But would you like to have dinner together?’ I asked. ‘You may not be paged tonight.’ There was a pause from the other end of the line. ‘But we can leave it if you like,’ I went on quickly. Was I being too pushy?

‘Geoffrey,’ she said seriously. ‘I’d love to have dinner with you, but…’

‘Yes?’ I said.

‘I’ll have to come back here afterwards.’

‘That’s fine,’ I said, upbeat. ‘Why don’t we have dinner at the Fox and Hounds in Uffington, and then I’ll get a taxi to take me on to Oxford while you go back to Lambourn.’

‘Great,’ she said, sounding a little relieved.

‘Are you sure everything’s all right?’ I asked her again.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I promise. Everything is fine.’

We disconnected and I was left wondering whether men could ever fully understand women.

We had arranged to meet at the Fox and Hounds at eight. I had noticed the pub on both my trips to the Radcliffe place. It was a yellow plastered building set close to the road in Uffington High Street and I arrived early at ten past seven in a taxi with my two suitcases.

‘I’m sorry,’ said the publican as I struggled in through the door with both cases and my crutches. ‘We don’t have any accommodation, we’re only a pub.’

I explained to him that another taxi was picking me up later and he kindly allowed me to store my bags in his office in the interim.

‘Now,’ he said as I half sat myself on one of the Windsor-style bar stools. ‘What can I get you?’

‘Glass of red, please,’ I said. ‘Merlot, if you have it.’

He poured a generous measure and set the glass down on the wooden bar top.

‘I called and booked for dinner,’ I said.

‘Mr Mason?’ he said. I nodded. ‘For two? At eight?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’m early.’ I looked around the bar. I was so early that, even on a Friday evening, I was his only customer. ‘Quiet tonight,’ I said to him.

‘It’ll be much busier later,’ he said. ‘All my regulars will be in soon.’

I rather hoped that Larry Clayton would not be amongst them.

I pulled a copy of the Millie and foal photograph from my jacket and placed it on the bar. ‘Do you recognize either of the people in this picture?’ I said, pushing it towards him.

He had a good look. ‘I don’t know the woman,’ he said. ‘But I think the man is Jack Rensburg.’

‘Does he live round here?’ I said. I could hardly control my excitement. I had thought the pub might be a long shot and hadn’t expected to get an answer so quickly.

‘He used to,’ the publican replied. ‘He worked at the stables on the Woolstone road. He’s been gone for two or three years, at least.’

‘How well did you know him?’ I asked.

‘Is he in trouble?’ he said.

‘No, nothing like that,’ I assured him with a laugh.

‘He used to talk a lot about cricket,’ he said. ‘He’s South African. He played for the village team here and they come into the pub after matches in the summer. He was always going on about how much better the South Africans were than the English team. But it was just banter. He’s a nice enough chap.’

‘Do you know why he left?’ I asked.

‘No idea,’ he said. ‘I think he went away on holiday and never came back.’

‘And you don’t know when exactly?’ I asked him.

He thought for a moment but shook his head. ‘Sorry.’

Some more customers arrived and he went off to serve them.

So, I thought, the stud groom was called Jack Rensburg and he was a South African who liked cricket and he had left Uffington at least two or three years ago, possibly to go on a holiday from which he had not returned. Young men the world over, especially those living away from their homeland, went on holidays all the time from which they didn’t return. The nomadic life of the young expatriate male should not be a surprise to anyone. Perhaps he met a girl, or simply went home and stayed there.

Eleanor arrived promptly at eight and I was still half standing, half sitting on the bar stool enjoying a second glass of Merlot.

She came over, gave me a peck on the cheek and sat on the stool next to me and ordered a glass of white. Where, I thought, had the kiss on the lips gone?

‘Had a good day?’ she asked rather gloomily, tasting her wine.

‘Yes, actually, I have. I’ve bought up most of the menswear in Newbury, washed, shaved and preened my body, and,’ I said with a flourish, ‘I’ve discovered the name of the man in the picture.’

‘Wow,’ she said, mocking. ‘You have been a busy boy.’ She smiled and it felt like the sun had come out.

‘That’s better,’ I said, smiling back. ‘And what have you been up to?’

‘I’ve spent most of the day monitoring the two-year-old from last night. And discussing his future with the owner.’ She raised her eyes to the heavens. ‘He would have much rather I put the animal down than save its life.’

‘How come?’ I said.

‘Seems it’s insured against being dead, but not against being a hopeless racehorse.’

‘And is it a hopeless racehorse?’ I asked.

‘It might be after yesterday,’ she said. ‘Might not be able to race at all. Much more profitable to him dead.’

‘Is bleeding in the lungs common in horses?’ I asked.

‘Fairly,’ she said. ‘But mostly EIPH. This one was a static bleed.’

‘EIPH?’ I said.

‘Sorry,’ she replied, smiling. ‘Exercise-induced pulmonary haemorrhage.’

I began to wish I’d never asked.

‘Lots of horses bleed slightly into their lungs during stressful exercise but that usually clears up quickly and spontaneously without too much damage and without any blood showing externally. Horses’ lungs are big and efficient but they need to be. Aracehorse needs masses of oxygen delivered to its muscles to run fast. You just have to see how hard they blow after the finish.’ She paused, but only for breath herself. ‘During the race their action helps their breathing. As they stretch out their hind quarters, they draw air in, and then that’s blown out again by their legs coming forward in the stride. It makes Thoroughbreds very efficient gallopers when both their hind legs move together, pumping air in and out of their lungs like pistons. But it also means that the air fairly rushes in and out at hurricane speeds and that sometimes damages the lining, which, by definition, has to be flimsy and fragile to let the oxygen pass into the bloodstream in the first place.’

I sat there listening to her, understanding every word and loving it. Not since Angela had died had I enjoyed the experience of a bright, educated and enthusiastic female companion describing to me something complicated because it interested her, and not just because I had asked her to do so as part of my job.

‘So, is a static bleed worse?’ I asked her.

‘Not necessarily,’ she said. ‘But it might make EIPH more likely. And horses that regularly show blood on their nostrils after racing are discouraged from running again and, in some countries, they’re not allowed to. The horses are usually referred to as having burst a blood vessel, or having had a nosebleed.’

I had heard both the terms used often on the racecourse.

‘It’s not really a blood vessel as such,’ she said. ‘And the blood comes not from the nose but from the alveoli in the lungs. In America they all use a drug called Lasix to help prevent it, but that’s against the Rules of Racing here.’

I didn’t really want to stop her but the publican came over and asked us if we were ready to eat, so we moved to a table in the corner of the bar.

‘Tell me about the man in the picture,’ Eleanor said as we sat down.

‘Not really much to tell,’ I said. ‘His name is Jack Rensburg, and he’s a South African who used to work for the Radcliffes but has now gone away.’

‘Where to?’ she said.

‘I haven’t found that out yet,’ I said.

‘Is he coming back?’ she said.

‘I don’t know that either, but I doubt it. He’s been gone for two years or more.’

‘Bit of a dead end, then?’ she said.

‘Yeah,’ I agreed. ‘But I’ll set Arthur onto it on Monday. He loves a challenge.’

‘Arthur?’ she asked.

‘Chief Clerk at my chambers,’ I said. ‘Knows everything, walks on water, that sort of thing.’

‘Useful,’ she said, smiling broadly, but the smile faded.

‘Horse walks into a bar -’ I said.

‘What?’ said Eleanor, interrupting.

‘Horse walks into a bar,’ I repeated. ‘Barman says, “Why the long face?”’

She laughed. ‘The old ones are always the best.’

‘So, why the long face?’ I said to her again.

She stopped laughing. ‘It’s nothing,’ she said. ‘I’m just being silly.’

‘If it’s nothing,’ I said. ‘Tell me.’

‘No,’ she said in mock seriousness. ‘It’s private.’

‘Have I done something wrong?’ I said.

‘No, of course not,’ she said. ‘It’s nothing. Forget it.’

‘I can’t,’ I said. ‘For the first time in more than seven years I don’t feel guilty at being out with another woman and, suddenly, there’s something wrong. And I’m worried it’s because of what I’ve said or done.’

‘Geoffrey,’ she said laying a hand on my arm. ‘It’s nothing like that.’ She laughed, throwing her head back.

‘Well what is it, then?’ I asked determinedly.

She leaned forward close to me. ‘Wrong time of the month,’ she said. ‘I was so afraid you would ask me to sleep with you, and I don’t want to, not like this.’

‘Oh,’ I said, embarrassed. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘It’s not a disease you know,’ she said with a laugh, the sparkle back in her eyes. ‘It’ll be gone by Monday, or Tuesday.’

‘Oh,’ I said again. ‘Monday or Tuesday,’ I repeated rather vaguely.

‘And I’m not on call on either night,’ she giggled.

I didn’t know whether to feel embarrassed, excited or just plain foolish.

The publican came over to our table to save me from further blushes. There was another man behind him. ‘There’s a chap here who used to play cricket with Jack,’ he said. ‘He may be able to help you.’

‘Thank you very much,’ I said.

The man pulled up a chair and sat down at the table.

‘Pete Ritch,’ the man said by way of introduction. ‘Hear you’re looking for Jack Rensburg.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’m Geoffrey Mason and this is Eleanor.’ He nodded at her.

‘What do you want him for?’ he asked.

‘I’m a lawyer and I’d like to talk to him,’ I said.

‘Is he in trouble?’ he said.

He was the second person who thought he might have been in trouble.

‘No. No trouble,’ I said. ‘I just need to talk to him.’

‘Is it some inheritance thing?’ he asked. ‘Has some aunt left him a pile?’

‘Something like that,’ I said.

‘Well, I’m sorry, then, ’cause I don’t rightly know where he is no more.’

‘When did you last see him?’ I asked.

‘Years ago now,’ he said. ‘He went on holiday and just never came back.’

‘Do you know where he went?’

‘Somewhere exotic it was,’ said Pete. I thought that anywhere out of Oxfordshire might seem exotic to him. ‘Far East or something.’

‘Can you think exactly when that was?’

‘It was during the last England tour to South Africa,’ he said with some certainty. ‘Him and me had a wager on the result and he never came back to pay me when England won. I remember that.’

‘Cricket tour?’ I asked.

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Dead keen on his cricket was Jack. His name was actually spelt with a “ques” at the end, like that famous South African cricketer Jacques Kallis. He was proud of that. But we all just called him Jack.’

‘Do you know anything else about him?’ I asked. ‘Does he have any family here, or did he own a house or a car?’

‘No idea,’ he said. ‘I only knew him from in here, and at the cricket club. He could bowl a bit. Spinners, mostly.’

‘Thank you so much, Pete,’ I said to him. ‘You’ve been most helpful.’

He made no move to stand up or to leave our table.

‘Sorry,’ I said, understanding. ‘Can I buy you a drink?’

‘That would be handsome,’ he said.

I waved at the publican, who came over.

‘Would you please give Pete here a drink on me,’ I said. ‘And one for yourself as well.’

They went off together to the bar and, subsequently, Pete waved a full pint in my direction. I nodded at him and smiled. Eleanor was trying very hard not to completely collapse in a fit of giggles.

‘Stop it,’ I said to her under my breath while trying hard not to join in. ‘For goodness’ sake, stop it.’ But she didn’t, or she couldn’t.

∗

My taxi arrived at ten fifteen sharp, as I had ordered, and it whisked me off to Oxford, leaving Eleanor waving to me from the pub car park. The evening had flown by and I wasn’t at all ready to go when the driver arrived. But he couldn’t wait. He had other trips booked after mine.

‘Now or never,’ he’d said.

I was tempted to say never, but I would just have to wait until Monday, or Tuesday.

Eleanor and I kissed each other goodnight firmly, with open mouths. It was a revelation to me after such a long time. Something stirred inside me and I so reluctantly struggled into the back seat of the taxi to be borne away from her to the City of Dreaming Spires. I, meanwhile, was dreaming of the future, and especially of Monday, or Tuesday.